The sun was pleasantly warm on his face when he awoke. He lay quietly, listening to the bees' low drone and the faint rustle of field flowers. Lifting his head, he winced. His temples pounded with a familiar ache and his mouth tasted of stale brandy. He sat up and rubbed his head, remembering Catherine's foul antidote. Then, remembered all of it. The shattered dream. And what he had done to her, even to the last. Two men holding her down while a third tore at his breeches. And the others, waiting. They would all use her over and over. They might even kill her. He clawed to his feet and screamed for the horse, but it was gone. He began to run—run until his chest was a white-hot band, and the bile rose, and his legs refused to obey, then slowed to a hopeless stumble. Whatever they had done was done.
The messroom was empty. Only bottles and dirty glassware remained; those, and a blood-soaked negligee wadded and thrown into a corner. Softly, Sean shut the door and went into the study. He took a dueling pistol from the weapon collection and, out of habit, polished its barrel with a sleeve. Perfectly balanced and without ornamentation, it was Brendan's finest.
"Ye'll not be needin' that. The lass is safe," Peg spoke behind him, having entered without knocking.
"Where?" He did not turn.
"In her cell. I saw ye bring her downstairs and sent Rafferty after a gun before ye left the terrace."
He looked at her then. "Her nightgown was covered with blood . . ."
"Tim O'Rourke tried to talk the others out of rapin' her and some of them were leery of what might happen when ye sobered. That Callahan, though, he was ready to take the risk. He tried to put a bullet in Tim when the lad jerked him off her. Tim was unarmed and Rafferty had to shoot Callahan. Somebody picked up the nightdress and tried to stop the bleedin', but he died in minutes."
"You liked her, didn't you?"
The Irishwoman's mouth tightened. "I didn't do it for her. I knew the state ye'd be in when ye came to yer senses."
Sean sagged into a chair and stared at the carpet. "I cannot kill her and cannot stand the thought of anyone else doing it. She's a barb in my guts that won't be cut out."
"Then stop tryin'. Ye'll not heal yer hurt in whores and liquor. 'Twill take time." Gently she drew the pistol from his unresisting fingers. "Much of the blame in this is mine. I thought that girl could ease the festerin' hurt inside ye, but instead she's brought ye low. I'd like to take this pistol and put a ball through her schemin' skull, but it wouldn't help." She touched his shoulder. "Have ye thought of what to do with her?" He rubbed his head, trying to clear it. "The English will come to search the house for rebels and guns. . . . Transfer the wench to the cellar cell. She can rot there," he added bitterly. "Revenge might have been sweet, but I'll be damned if she'll relish the aftertaste." He dragged his long frame out of the chair. "Have the portable art shifted to the wine cellar. The English will steal the wine, but I doubt if they'll break through the racks." He crossed to the painting behind the desk and opened the secret wall compartment it concealed. He withdrew pouches of gold and jewelry, then dropped them on the desk. "Bury these tonight with the Celtic artifacts in the ruins. Have Tim take the best stock into the mountains." He closed the compartment and turned. "How many servants are left to help you?"
"A handful. The rest stole some fishing boats and put out to sea before ye returned from Wexford. Most of the men who came back with ye followed them last night. Tim's gone, too. Said he'd had enough. 'Tis sorry I am, lad, but there it is."
"It was bound to happen." With apparent idleness, he toyed with a brooch from a loosened pouch. "Liam said Mother took lovers in Brendan's absence. He mentioned a particular English lieutenant. . ."
He looked up and Peg's heart went out to him. "I don't know, lad, and that's God's truth. I was Megan's personal maid. If I didn't know, then Liam couldn't. She was wild. I disliked and mistrusted her. But to my knowledge, she was a faithful wife."
He slipped the brooch into the bag and drew the strings. "Then let's get on with it."
Catherine dully surveyed stone walls, now as familiar as her own hands. The boredom of confinement was incredible, the lack of a window to tell the difference between night and day disquieting after . . . how long? She estimated two weeks by counting the barren meals. Her appetite was far from titillated by the inevitable fish, watercress, and potato diet. She sat on a pallet; the cot frame and webbing had been removed along with anything that might permit suicide, which left a stool, a slop bucket, and a candle. Asphyxiation by firing the pallet was possible, but her religion forbade that release even though God seemed to have turned a deaf ear to prayer and no human appeal was possible. She had not seen Sean since the terrible night he had thrown her to the human wolves. She still awoke in cold sweats, remembering their holding her down to endure the man's obscene groping before he suddenly collapsed atop her, blood spurting.
There was another fact even more terrible to contemplate. She was pregnant.
The cell door creaked and a servant with a shawl about her head brought in the ration, set it on the floor, and straightened in the gloom. "Fiona!"
The Irish girl smiled coldly. "I'll be lookin' after yer needs from now on, but mostly Sean's." Her smile grew triumphant. "He's fair sick with hate of ye, but I'm making him forget. Every time he makes love to me he forgets. We spent yesterday in bed. Soon he's goin' to forget ye're alive. He'll not even notice when ye ain't. I'm thinkin' maybe I'll let ye die a bit at a time, maybe for years."
When Catherine finally picked up her food, she found only half the usual ration and the fish, while not actually spoiled, had such an unsavory odor that she left it. The next day was the same, but the rations were halved and the candle not replaced. The dark closed in like a blanket.
Squinting against late-afternoon sunlight that glanced in a blinding glare off the water, Sean finished lashing the Megan's mainsail and reeled in the dinghy. Fiona slipped her arms around his chest and leaned against his bare back. " 'Twas glorious today, just like the old days when we'd sail and make love on the deck for hours." She giggled and ran her hands down his belly. "Rememberin' makes me hot all over again."
He eased away her hand. "We've all the night, girl, and naught else to do."
She bit his ear before releasing him to retrieve their luncheon basket. "Aye. Long, sweet hours. Just us. It's as good for you as it is for me. I knew for certain this afternoon. Ye can forget. 'Twas my name ye cried." Silently, he held out a hand to help her into the dinghy. She caught his fingers and kissed them, amber eyes aglow. "I want yer child. 'Tis right, Sean; I know it is. My love is more than I can hold within." He drew her close and tenderly kissed her, then handed her into the boat.
As he rowed ashore, the Irishman glanced down into sunlit blue water that deepened to beckoning shadows. Forget? How could he, when each moment recalled her, the ghost at his shoulder? Forcing him to cry out another woman's name to keep from groaning hers with a longing that tore him apart. He had not seen Kit in three months, yet she haunted him, a gentle harpy. Fiona deserved marriage and children. She was ripe for it with a man faithful in body and mind. Their frequency of lovemaking made a child inevitable. He had been accused of siring more than one bastard, but as the results were from casual relationships with women who entertained more than one lover, he had felt no obligation. Fiona was different. He had to make a decision; that meant he had to see Catherine.
Sean unlocked the cell, then muttered a startled, muffled curse when he saw the tiny room contained the Stygian darkness and stench of a tomb. "Catherine? . . . Damn you, answer me! Where are you?" His reply was a ratlike scuffling in a far corner. With a chill in his gut, he wasted no more questions, but snatched up the candle he had brought, stepped into the cell, and swung it high. In the corner, crouched against the wall, a small wraith flinched from the light. As he approached, stunned by Catherine's appearance, she shrank away, shaking uncontrollably. "Kit?" He touched her shoulder, and wild-eyed, she tore away as if he had branded the candle to her flesh. Too weak to do more than crawl
a few feet in an effort to escape, his prisoner huddled like a trapped rabbit in the seeking pool of light.
After planting the candle in a wall niche, Sean pulled her up. She beat at him weakly. "No! No! Don't! Don't hurt my—" She stopped abruptly as if she had revealed a terrible secret, and he thought her mind had gone. "Let me go," she whimpered against his chest, "please . . ."
"I won't hurt you . . . hush." Without thinking, he stroked her hair and held her close. Stricken with terror, she was skin and bone under the shapeless shift. The small face had lost its beauty. Only the eyes were recognizable, but they were black with fear, their brilliant glory ruined.
"Shh, little one. Be still. It's all right. I haven't come to hurt you."
Slowly, her trembling lessened and he heard her whisper, "Please . . . the candle. I'm not used to it."
He blocked the light with his shoulder. "Why not, Kit? Have you been living in the dark?" She was silent. "Where's your candle?" he prodded gently.
"You . . . told her to take it away." She sounded vague and sad, like a dazed child. She sagged in his arms, and he picked her up. Never much more than a hundred pounds, now she could not have weighed more than three quarters of that. She clutched something against her breast. After he laid her on the pallet, he tried to remove it from her fingers. With surprising tenacity, she resisted and for the moment he let her be, continuing to stroke her hair. She was unconscious when he spoke to her again. He pried the object loose and relit the candle to see bits of straw roughly tied with thread pulling from her clothing into the form of a cross. With fury rising in him like a tidal flood, he took her up in his arms. As he carried her out of the cell, he saw on the floor the slop she had been fed.
Fiona sailed into the bedroom with swirling skirts and a teasing laugh. "We've the best of a brace of fresh rabbits for supper and a champagne Boney couldn't afford. When do I have Peg bring it up? Before or after . . . ?" The words died on her lips as she saw the girl on the bed. And green eyes that blistered her with revulsion. "Sean, I. . ."
"Don't bother. Unless you want to take her place, leave now." The words came out like separate chips of ice.
"Sean, I did it for us. She's a witch, sent to destroy ye. She's evil." Fiona came toward him, pleading, eyes golden in the fading light of sunset.
"You starved her like a dog," he snarled. "You made a coffin of that cell, and God knows what else—"
"You were the one who put her there!" she flared in defensive anger. "Ye said she could rot! I know. Peg told me!" She came close. "I niver touched the slut because ye forbade it. I did not a whit more than ye wanted. I let her rot! Only I'd not the patience to wait years. The witch can't die fast enough!" Her voice rose in hysteria and her hands reached out like claws toward her wasted rival.
With a blow that sent her to the floor, Sean gritted, "Because there's truth in what you say, I'll not kill you. But if I ever see your face again, I'll put a bullet through your murderous heart."
She got to her knees and crawled toward him. "Sean, ye're my life! I'd as lief spend my days in that cellar than be shut away from ye."
He scooped the cell keys from the bedside table and threw them in her face. "Be sure to lock the door."
Holding her cut cheek, Fiona shrieked, "She's bewitched ye! Ye're not a Gael anymore! Bastard traitor!" Stumbling to her feet, she fled.
Mothwing lashes flickered on pale cheeks as Catherine groped weakly through the blankets; then what she sought was tucked into her hand. Her eyes opened. Like a child awakened from a nightmare, she gazed up at the man sitting on the edge of the bed. "Am I dying?" she asked softly. He shook his head. "Then . . . why did you come for me?"
"I nosed you out on the stair," Culhane teased gently. "You were in sore need of a bath, lass."
Unexpectedly, she tensed. "No . . . I don't want. . ."
"Easy. Peg has bathed you already. Haven't you noticed a change in your perfume?" She eyed him furtively and again he wondered if confinement had affected her mind. "You're also in need of fattening up." He lifted a spoonful of custard from a cup on the side table and placed it temptingly near her mouth.
Her nostrils quivered, but she shook her head. "I'd just be sick."
Culhane returned the spoon to the cup. "Have you been sick long?"
"A few weeks."
"You have to eat, girl, or be sicker yet."
Her eyes were bottomless pools. "When I'm well. . . will you send me back to that place?"
"No, lass. Not ever."
Something in his eyes made her put the cross in his hand and close his fingers over it before she slept.
After that, Catherine ate obediently, and was nauseated after each effort until Peg made a concoction that allowed her to hold soft food down. In contrast to the passivity, she insisted on bathing herself, flatly refusing to let anyone either touch or see her body. Attributing her modesty to his sexual abuse, Sean did not force the issue.
After a month, she looked less like a small skeleton and was able to walk for limited periods on the terrace. Sean was gentle with her, but more coolly polite as she regained health. At length, she became restless and asked him if she might walk on the lawn. He studied her silently, then spoke. "You're almost well again. You'll have to be confined."
She paled, then said quietly, "I see. Where is my cell to be this time?" The small, cropped head was high, and her eyes held his unflinchingly, but the mouth was vulnerable.
"A room has been prepared on the top floor. It's plain, but livable. There's a view of the sea."
Her eyes darkened. "Through bars?"
"Yes," he said tightly.
"Shall I never leave that room?"
"You'll be permitted out on special occasions."
She smiled ironically. "Weddings and funerals."
"What did you expect," he snarled suddenly, "a personal jester? You've had that!"
"I never laughed at you," she replied softly, and stood up, gathering the heather shawl close, shivering slightly against the late breeze. "I'm a little cold. Could we go in now?"
As he eased off the balustrade, she looked up at him. "Shall I see you on these special occasions?"
"Yes."
She gave him-her arm.
CHAPTER 17
Cry of the Bean Si
As the breeze ruffled her cropped hair, Catherine leaned her cheek against the bars to feel the final warming rays of a brilliant sunset. Shorn hair made her resemble a skinny boy but there was no one to see her as a woman except the taciturn, hard-faced guard who brought her food. The plainly furnished room was bright and airy, with a choice of books. Still, it was a prison, and on sunlit days she wanted to beat her wings against the bars. Her tension increased with advancing pregnancy, although the swollen curve of her stomach was not yet apparent under her high-waisted dresses. Nearly six months pregnant, she worried because the child was undersized. Still, she could not bring herself to tell Sean, aware her condition would seem a mockery to him.
The key turned in the lock, and her heart lurched as Culhane entered the room. To hide the transparent longing in her eyes, she quickly turned to close the window.
Sean watched her fumble awkwardly in an attempt to capture the swinging frame, and easing her aside, he closed the window, then turned to look at her. By sunset, her face seem to glow like a burning rose and desire went through him like a hot wind. He veered away and began to pace the room, reminding her of a jungle cat wary of a trap. "I'm expecting guests for a fortnight. I thought you might like to join the group—in a limited way, of course."
"When will they arrive?"
"Tomorrow. At dinner, you may join us as Flynn's invalid niece. He'll be present, so with your skill at deceit, the masquerade shouldn't be difficult. You'll return to your room at an appropriate time in the evening and keep to your chamber by day."
"Very well, I shall do as you ask."
"You'll do as I tell you, madam, or I'll lock you up until Christmas next!" Slamming the door behind him, he left his priso
ner to wonder what she had done to antagonize him.
To meet the guests, Catherine donned a cinnamon silk; but she was still too thin to do justice to the long-sleeved dress, and touches of rouge added scant color to cheekbones strained against the skin. I look the languishing invalid, she thought as she surveyed her image in the mirror. Now that she anticipated seeing people again, the possibility that Sean might find her appearance embarrassing and banish her upstairs seemed unbearable. Wistfully, she hoped they would like her.
When Catherine entered the dining room and the door closed discreetly behind on her guard, the men all stood up at once. Like multicolored penguins bobbing about a candlelit iceberg, she thought a bit wildly. Nowhere was the masculine admiration to which she had grown accustomed. The seated women in their brilliant plumage clearly dismissed her as a dowdy bird despite her expensive dress. "I . . . I'm sorry to be late." Uncertainly, she sought Sean's eyes, but they were expressionless as he came to take her arm and made introductions before seating her next to Doctor Flynn. The doctor did not look at her after his initial, startled stare. Dear Lord, she thought in growing dismay. I must look dreadful!
General conversation resumed as Rafferty and Peg served dinner. After managing small talk with her neighbor, Milton O'Keane, a thin, elderly member of Irish Parliament, and beginning a second glass of wine, Catherine felt brave enough to peep at the dinner party: three men and two women. George Ennery, a portly, powerful-looking man was saying, "We were all grieved to hear of Lockland Fitzhugh's death, Sean. He'll be irreplaceable. The deaths in the revolt must have broken him."
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